


You've Been Met With a Terrible Fate

by DekuPrince



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 16:25:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3140993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DekuPrince/pseuds/DekuPrince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They lost, and the Chimera Ants emerged triumphant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You've Been Met With a Terrible Fate

Fluid presses in and around Killua in a weightless, muffling caress. He’s conscious, but for the longest time that means nothing. In a state of suspension he has no thoughts of his own, mind too blank and weak to be bothered with bringing up anything like past experiences or sensations. All his existence knows is acceptance and acknowledgment of the warm wetness around him.

The first time he stirs is for a sensation he would consider odd if he had the ability of comparison. It feels like there’s something in his head, a peering and watching presence that takes him in swiftly, accessing, and then is gone once more. It sparks something in Killua so that his eyes open into a green cloudiness.  
  


Moments later he becomes aware that he has a body, one that he can order into movement. Curling his fingers is interesting enough on it’s own, for a bit. Turning his head and rolling his eyes holds no interest, everything looks the same no matter where he looks. He takes to running his tongue along teeth so sharp that a careless press leaves him with the sudden taste of blood in his mouth.  
  


It’s with this instigator of coppery taste that triggers Killua access to his memories, and for a long time he remains unmoving, reliving his life in bits and pieces and wondering what it means that he feels no care or attachment to any of it anymore. He recalls faces, is aware of dim echoes of how he _used_ to feel about those people.  
  


Aware but not identifying anymore. Alluka does not call bitterly to his heart for rescue any longer, and Illumi no longer inspires fear or revulsion in his gut.  
  


Then, gently, Killua remembers his death, found and overcome by the red Royal Guard that was known as Youpi. He’d been broken. He’d been in pain.  
  


Pitou had been there in the end, to watch, to laugh, and his last thoughts had been of Gon.  
  


When he’s ready, when something deep and evolutionary thrums in his veins and calls to him, Killua reaches a hand forward, through the murky liquid, until his knuckles brush against a solid wall.  
  


Killua flattens his hand out, spreading his fingers wide, and he pushes.  
  


\---  
  


It’s a lot to adjust to.  
  


Before, Killua’s senses had been considered inhuman. But he had developed them slowly, body adjusting easily to the gradual but impressive growth. He had prided himself in his night vision, sharp hearing, and even his sense of taste and smell, though the last two were dwarfed by Gon’s own unusually heightened senses.  
  


A guttural noise leaves Killua’s throat to convey his condescending amusement that he ever thought he was extraordinary before. Killua had been human through and through, even if his senses had been prodigally above the norm for the species.  
  


He’d been foolishly overconfident in his abilities and it took rebirth to become aware of it. The dark gloom of the birthing room was lit by nothing more than several thin slivers of moonlight that were slipping through the broken ceiling, but it was more than enough to illuminate every nuance, every grain and grit of texture, of what was in the room around him.  
  


For now ,the over stimulation has brought him into blanketing his senses as much as he could, laying and waiting for the world to be taken in in a way he could properly process.  
  


He was foolish in more ways than disillusioned strength, he realizes, because even his devotion to Gon was pale and small and _dim_ compared to the aching he carried now in his chest for his King.  
  


For _their_ King.  
  


Thinking of Him, even in passing, makes Killua shudder for the effort of staying still, limbs locking stubbornly where he lays next to the only other unhatched cocoon in the room. Even with only a silhouette visible beneath the hardened shell Killua can tell it’s Gon inside. His attachment to the boy may be a ghost of what it once was, but the idea of leaving the room without him made Killua feel lonely.  
  


Maybe lonely wasn‘t exactly the right word. There’s something in Killua’s mind, a small tugging, that assists in a sensation like pulling his mental impressions directly from his head and into the open air. Curiosity caused him to extend a wordless thought outwards mere moments after being born, and he had found that there were _disturbances_. When touched upon he became aware of other’s presence through the disturbances, like touching the strand of a spider’s web and feeling the resulting vibrations from the other end.  
  


Telepathic communication, he thinks.  
  


It was for that reason he withdrew even more tightly into himself, quieting his thoughts and isolating himself to just this room. It was then and here he had felt the slumbering mind of his friend.  
  


Killua realizes that some of his impulse to stay here came from an urge to stay with Gon, something that has his brows furrowing and cheek rubbing against the rough texture of the cocoon. Here is where he’s needed, ready to welcome Gon into the world.  
  


“Gon,” he calls softly. “Gon, hurry up, idiot.” Movement within the cocoon draws Killua‘s ears to swivel and point irresistibly towards it, quivering and waiting to see if it‘s finally time. After a moment he can hear Gon’s breathing, hear his heartbeat, hear the rush of blood in his veins and the slight creak of his joints when he shifts again just out of sight.  
  


“Gon…” Killua croons. He reaches out a hand, lightly scraping irretraceable claws over the rough shell. The dark silhouette inside stirs again, restless, and Killua gasps quietly when the imprint of a hand is pressed against the inside of the shell under his own.  
  


Killua’s excitement quells quietly as he stares at the back of his hand and flexes his fingers. There’s one less than their should be. Than there _used_ to be, he corrects. It’s been hours he’s spent alone in this room, guarding instincts for the King being spent and redirected, for the moment, to Gon. In that time he’s barely taken an interest in exploring his metamorphosis, finding an odd lack of interest for it.  
  


The heavy tail that pulls at his lower back and the new ears the flick and rotate simply seem natural, even though they clash vividly with the memories of what his body was like before. But it’s only now that he notices the finer nuances of his transformation, making his reach to touch along his arms, fingers pressing into his wrist to try and find some semblance of warmth, of a pulse, that shows he really is alive despite the sudden and violent death he remembers.  
  


Rather than having his skin give way to the pressure it remains firm. A quick flicker of understanding makes him realize it’s because his arm doesn’t seem to boast flesh anymore, at the surface, but rather a hard, flexibly, lightly furred carapace.  
  


A swarm of negative emotions hits him, buzzing and unclear in origin so that a deep rumbling growl burns at the base of his throat. Memories bubble and then surge up about how he had felt about the Chimera Ants as a whole when he was frail and pathetic and _human_ , and Killua flails mentally as he struggles to push and repress the memories.  
  


They’re easy to shove back, he realizes happily. Easy to push away and ignore where he hopes they’ll rot and never cause him the pain of ambiguous emotions again.  
  


“--lua.” A small voice sounds, muffled but close, so that Killua is startled and turns just in time to see cracks web across the cocoon.  
  


“Gon,” Killua calls back. It takes effort not to help Gon along, break his way in, and if Gon isn’t ready Killua can rest beside him, in the wetness of the embryonic fluid that will be inside. Rest until Gon _is_ ready. . .  
  


But Gon pushes harder, and the give to the outer shell of his cocoon is sudden and violent, splintering enough pieces, with enough force, that Killua has to squint to avoid catching any stray particles in his eyes.  
  


“Killua!” Gon chirps. He surges up and out to stand on long legs, fluids soaked into what remains of his clothes, his hair. Killua is dully expecting some kind of embrace, but instead Gon stays standing where he is, and his face softens with such an extreme endearment that Killua becomes still and silent and devotes himself to hearing whatever it is Gon has to say next.  
  


“Where is the King?”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm undecided if this will be a collection of short stories set in an AU or something of the like. I have lots of ideas for this verse, but we'll see.


End file.
